


Ready To Comply.

by ilikedthewayhegaveback



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, PTSD, Panic Attack, anxiety attack, my poor poor son, post winter soldier, pre civil war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6833212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilikedthewayhegaveback/pseuds/ilikedthewayhegaveback
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has not managed to shake the activation code that Hydra implanted in his brain. Even hearing the words on their own sets him off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Longing

It’s been a cold day. The grey clouds grow steadily darker, but Bucky doesn’t mind. He’s sat slumped on a bench, a plastic bag at his feet and a notebook in his hands. The pen in his right hand has been hovering over a blank page for quite some time now, his eyes beginning to blur he’s concentrating so hard. Sometimes the memories come easily. Sometimes they don’t. Today’s thought is the latter. He’s nearly there. He can remember fog. A car. Somebody shouting, but no screams. A woman runs towards him, but he can’t see her face. And then – the memory stops. Just cuts out into a blinding white light that makes his head hurt. Bucky brings his left hand to his head, rubbing gently at his temples. The metal under his glove is unforgivingly cold, and he can feel it through the leather. It’s useless. He sets his pen down on the bench beside him, huffing a sigh. He’s been eavesdropping on a conversation while he muses, listening to the two teenage girls on the bench beside his chatting about their new pet. One girl is, perhaps, sixteen, the other maybe twelve. A quick glance sideways brings a smile to the haggard man’s lips. The younger girl is talking so fast her words smudge together, and she sometimes has to stop to draw a huge breath before carrying on. It’s moments like this that make Bucky happy, if happiness was possible when one’s very core feels so cold all the time.

“Remember when we first went to see him? And his ears were all soft and his tail wouldn’t stop wagging?” the younger girl asks her sister, almost jittering with excitement.  
“Yes, I remember.” The older girl smiles, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.  
“And they let us in and he wouldn’t stop trying to cuddle you?”  
“I know. He smelt so bad, but he was too cute.”  
Bucky smiles to himself, flexing the fingers of his left hand. Sometimes, in the cold, they would seize up. At least he was at no risk of frostbite.  
“And he knew we wanted him even then. He was just longing for us to take him home –”

And suddenly, silence. Their conversation mutes to a blank hum, and Bucky is boxed in. The flex of his hand causes the mechanism to whir, and it’s the only thing he can hear besides the rushing, pulsing sound of his own heart. Everything swirls, streaks of black painting the colourful market scene in front of him. He stands, only pausing to shove his notebook underneath his arm, and grab the bag at his feet. The world is turning, and streaked red. He takes off at a brisk pace, feeling bile and acid boiling inside him. The girls, so bright and happy before, go quiet as he passes, their gaze following him as he lurches down an alleyway, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. When he was out of sight, he lets it happen. He drops to his knees, feeling a cold wave of horrific memory wash over him, so strong it takes the strength out of him. For all his muscle and training, he’s suddenly weak as a baby. He falls forward, head dropping between his shoulders as he braces himself with his hands, breathing raggedly. His exhales form into crude, animal whimpers. He can feel it. The twisting that starts at the back of his neck, the sensation that feels like someone reaching into his brain and squeezing. It blocks out everything except the will to comply, to sit and wait and listen to a list of commands. At the same time it flares up in his chest like sharp heat, tugging at his organs and wrenching in an indescribable, excruciating pain. He wants to scream, to sob and beg for mercy.

But the next word never comes.

He’s waiting for it, but slowly he remembers. He’s not there anymore. The waves of panic washing over him slowly ebb. He opens his eyes, squeezed shut against the memories of harsh faces, the sting of beatings, the promise that if he killed, he would eat. But all he can see beneath him is concrete. Slightly damp from the morning’s rain, and dusty with footprints. His notebook has fallen to the ground at his side, the still-blank page torn slightly along one side. He stares at it, trying to ground himself. The cracked street surface bites into the skin of his right hand, and he can feel the damp warmth of blood welling from the graze on the heel of his hand. His knees, too, ache lightly. He really had fallen with some force. Only his left hand is painless. At least, no more painful than it usually was. Bucky sits back on his haunches, his body still trembling and his heart pounding fast with adrenaline. The taste of bile is high in his throat but he gulps it down, pulling off first his baseball cap and then his glove to run his left hand through his sweat slick hair. The cool, smooth metal is a small blessing as he rubs at his scalp, trying to ease the memories out of his head. Easier said than done. Once his vision has sharpened again he stands, shakily smoothing out his jeans and wincing when the fabric catches on the light abrasion on his right hand. It would heal soon enough, he knows, but it was inconvenient. He takes a few deep breaths, picking up his things and glancing over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed. Paranoia is always inevitable after his panic attacks. He sets off, not looking back until he’s at the other end of the alleyway, at which point he feels for his jacket pocket. He sighs in relief as he feels the familiar shape of his phone, keys, and painkillers, but something’s missing.

He kicks himself mentally, but does not turn back. That was his second to last pen, and had still been half full with ink. It was a shame, but he could not face going back now. No, he needed home now. Even if home was a dingy, one room apartment on the seventh floor. Still. It was home.


	2. Rusted

“I don’t know why it keeps doing it. I always make sure there’s no food on my plates when I wash them. I’m very careful.”  
Bucky nods, taking another gargantuan bite of his sandwich. He was in Mrs. Petrescu’s flat, the 86-year old woman who lived in the cramped apartment below his. He would often help her with menial tasks like changing lightbulbs and dusting the bookshelves in return for food. It hadn’t started like that. Initially, he’d just wanted to help a lonely old woman. The first time he’d come in to unblock her sink, she sent him away with two biscuits. The second time he’d come in, to move her sofa and vacuum underneath it, she’d made him a cup of tea and a pancake. The third time, in which he’d gone shopping for her and defrosted her freezer, she’d given him a Tupperware box of leftover salad and some chicken. From then on, she would invite him to stay for a meal before he left. She chatted about her grandchildren and her newest knitting patterns as she cooked, letting Bucky manhandle the enormous metal pot onto the stove and chop vegetables while she stirred and seasoned. She didn’t even care about his metal arm anymore. She sure had stared the first time he’d rolled his sleeve up, but she had never asked questions. Thank God she had neither a TV nor a radio, Bucky had often thought to himself. She might have a thing or two to say to him if she knew.

Today she’d insisted that he sit while she cooked, and he knew from her tone of voice that to resist would not end well. She had, he guessed, noted the unhealthy pallor in his skin, and the way his breathing hitched when he inhaled. For all that he was a super soldier, the cold Romanian winters did him no favours.

He sits quietly now, gnawing at his sandwich. Garlic sausages, mushrooms and cheese between two thick slices of brown bread – he couldn’t wish for anything more comforting. Although the chair he’s sitting on is wooden and very uncomfortable, he’s content. His head has been quiet for the last few days. It’s pleasant. Sometimes, still, the face of a man comes into his head. Golden hair, bright eyes and, to his mild confusion, two different heights. He doesn’t understand it. But it comforts him, in a way none of his other half memories do. He takes another bite, relishing the taste of greasy, filling food.  
“You’ve sure got an appetite on you…”  
Mrs. Petrescu pats him lightly on the shoulder as she shuffles past, and Bucky can’t help but marvel at how frail her hand feels, like hollow glass encased in silk. But she had strength in her. He knew that from the ‘gentle’ clip round the ear he’d received when he’d wired the plug of her bedside lamp incorrectly. He smiles fondly at the memory, remembering the size of the slice of cake she’d given him out of remorse. He swallows the last bite of his sandwich and licks the juice from his fingers. It would have to keep him going until tomorrow morning, so he was making the most of it.  
“James, do you have time to help me with one more thing? There’ll be baklava in it for you,” Mrs. Petrescu enquires, peering over her shoulder at him from her position by the door. Bucky smiles, stretching out his back as he stands.  
“Of course. Anything.”  
His own voice sounds husky and deep from lack of use. He only ever talks when he really has to, and usually Mrs. Petrescu is happy to talk to him without his imput.  
“You see, my Eugenia is about to have a baby. Her first. And I’d really like to put this to use again.”  
She pats the antique pram that has, in Bucky’s memory, always lived between the bookcase and the wall, squashed in there doing nothing but gathering dust. The thing’s ancient, all seized up from lack of use. Bucky wanders over, running his hand along the rail of the handle. His left hand gleams, standing out from the dusty white metal of the pram handle. He rarely bothers to wear his gloves when he’s around the old lady. She doesn’t mind.  
“It should be salvageable. Just needs a little love,” Bucky mutters, crouching to inspect the wheels, bracing his right arm across his thigh. He runs his left hand along the wheel closest to him, tilting his head to inspect the intricate metalwork.  
“I thought so. Only it might need more than love – the axis is all rusted up.”

It comes like a punch to his gut. The stink of over oiled metal fills his nose, the screech and whine of machinery howling in his ears and faces of the dead screaming behind his eyes. His whole body coils, and he can feel his left hand tightening on rusting metal – and he clenches his jaw and pulls out of it. It’s painful. Deeply, disgustingly painful. He digs his nails into the palm of his right hand until he feels blood, anything to distract from the agony in his head, his chest, his left arm. It wants to crush, to hurt. But he doesn’t let it. Before he can do any real damage he tugs his arm away, falling backwards with the force of it. He can barely see. The memory of a small, bug eyed man wells up in his vision, half blocking his view of the pram. His chest is tightening, to the point he can barely breathe, and then he feels it.

A hand on his shoulder. A light, gentle hand that neither shakes nor squeezes. And suddenly he can breathe, taking in such a huge gasp of oxygen that he sees stars.  
“It’s alright, boy. It’s alright.”  
Mrs. Petrescu places her other hand on Bucky’s head, gently stroking his hair. He’s unwashed, greasy, and this act of kindness makes him want to cry. He takes several long, shaking breaths as he blinks tears from his eyes. The old woman was shushing him like he was a child, murmuring gentle words he wasn’t even listening to. Slowly the tension began to ease from his body, and his muscles began to relax.  
“There. Much better,” coos Mrs. Petrescu, giving Bucky’s shoulder a final touch before moving away. Sometimes he wondered whether she did know. Whether she knew not to be afraid of him when he was like this. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d broken down. But he was safe. He looks around, taking in the floral curtains, the ragged carpet, the bookshelf, the pram. He sits for a minute, letting his breathing adjust and his heart rate return to its normal slow, steady rhythm.  
“Here. It’ll help.”  
A mug of tea had appeared by his side. He reaches for the cup and takes a small sip, closing his eyes. He never could tell how much the old lady knew. But he thanked whatever powers that be that she had called on him to unblock her sink one rainy Tuesday afternoon.


	3. Seventeen

The apartment is unusually muggy, despite the howling gale outside. The dusty radiator seems to have gone into overdrive, filling the room with a drowsy sort of warmth. Bucky sits with his back to the wall, a pillow supporting his lower back and a plate of freshly baked cinnamon rolls in his lap. Baking always calms him down, and after a morning spent hauling crates onto the back for a van for a few Leu, his body needs a rest. Halfway through a bite of sweet dough, Bucky glances at the notebook that sits beside him. On the page he has written one word, and underlined it.

Seventeen.

It makes his heart hurt, and the backs of his eyes prickle. His chest twists as his eyes glaze over the form of the letters, trying to drink in any meaning he can find from them. A memory is beginning to wash into his brain, hazy and golden. He sets down his plate and picks up the book and his pen, tapping it against the page and closing his eyes against the dryness of his exhaustion. The howling of the wind picks up, but Bucky’s tired enough that it doesn’t register. He lets his head fall back, letting his thoughts cloud the front of his brain as his memory washes over him.

_It’s warm, and the sun is just beginning to set behind the vast expanse of water before him. Bucky has his jacket draped over his arm, his trousers rolled up to the knee and his shoes dangling lightly from his fingers. The air is filled with a calm, soft sort of happiness – the scent of hotdogs and sugar, the sound of laughter, the rush of the ocean and the wild screams of children running in and out of the waves that gently lap at the shore. Bucky twitches his toes, feeling the damp, gritty sand beneath his soles give way as another wave rushes over his feet._  
_“Come on, Steve. You’ve been sat there for hours. The sun’s gonna be there again tomorrow,” he calls, barely turning his head._  
_“But the lighting’s perfect. You go on ahead, I’ll catch up.”_  
_Bucky sighs, running a hand through his immaculately styled hair and smoothing it back into place before turning round. The small blond man behind him is sat hunched up on the dry sand, sketching furiously in a battered notebook. His brow is furrowed, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration. Bucky smiles, walking back up the beach to sit beside his friend. Steve looks up briefly to smile at him, then goes back to his drawing. Bucky glances over Steve's shoulder, nodding in approval. Somehow, even without colour, Steve has captured the scene beautifully. The rippling waves, the bright reflection of the sun in the water, the fluffy clouds that speckle the horizon._  
_“Not bad, kid. I mean, you’re no Picasso, but you’re gettin’ there.”_  
_Steve turns, looking mildly annoyed, which makes Bucky’s smarmy grin wider._  
_“Shut up, jerk.”_  
_He doodles a final detail on one of the clouds, then closes the notebook with a small sigh._  
_“Alright, Buck. Let’s go. Supper’s on you.”_  
_They both stand, brushing sand from their clothes before they make their way further down the beach._

_“So what did you think of Pam?” Bucky asks his friend, glancing across at Steve to gauge his reaction. Steve doesn’t turn his head, instead just shrugging._  
_“She seems nice enough,” is the only answer he gives. He looks down at the ground, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The action makes his shoulders sag, his already-too-large shirt practically dwarfing him._  
_“C’mon Stevie, you gotta give me more than that. Didn’t you think she was pretty? She wore her best dress for you, you know.”_  
_“Well, she shouldn’t have. You splashed water all over it,” he mumbles, giving Bucky a sideways scowl. Bucky grins, feeling only a little ashamed. He hadn’t meant to. He really had been aiming for Steve._  
_“You ignored her all day anyway. You gotta give a girl a chance sometime, you know,” Bucky says, shaking his head._  
_“I don’t gotta. Damn it Buck, we’re only seventeen.”_

A small jolt, like an electric current at the base of his spine. His eyes fly open, and the memory flickers briefly. There’s more to it than this, Bucky’s sure of it. But his hands are shaking now, and he can’t remember why. He watches as his left hand twitches mechanically, his fingers clenching and unclenching irregularly. And before he can stop it, the memory forces itself back into his head, so strongly he almost can’t breathe.

_He swings an arm around Steve’s shoulders, watching as the rich golden sunlight plays off his hair like a halo. He feels so fragile under Bucky’s arm, like a child. He grumbles slightly as Bucky gives him an affectionate squeeze._  
_“Well, we won’t be for long. We gotta make the most of it, partner,” he says, ruffling Steve’s hair as he pulls away. Steve elbows him gently, scraping his hair back into place._  
_“That’s just it. We do. You don’t gotta be paring me off with whichever dame takes your fancy. I don’t want any of ‘em.”_  
_Bucky falters slightly, clenching his jaw. He’s only ever wanted what’s best for Steve._  
_“Why, you got someone else in mind already?”_  
_Steve shrugs, a light blush blooming from his neck to his face._  
_“Not exactly. I dunno. I just wanna spend time with you, you know? You don’t laugh at me – not much, anyway – you stop me from running headfirst into every fight I see… I don’t want no dame, Bucky, I’ve got you.”_  
_Bucky falters, watching Steve intensely. Then he lets out a guffaw of a laugh, slapping his friend on the shoulder._  
_“Why don’t you just get down on one knee and propose then, darlin’?”_  
_“Jerk.”_  
_“Punk.”_  


Bucky opens his eyes, glancing down at his hands. The metal one is deathly still, and the right isn’t far off. He desperately wants to pick up his pen and begin to write what he could remember, but at the same time he can’t bear the thought of disconnecting from the memory. He felt happier than he had for a long time, and it wasn’t fading. With a faint smile he finally picks up his pen, forgotten by his side, and begins to write.


End file.
